The Queen's Exiles (13 page)

“And now?” she asked. The canal was finished.

“My place is at the lock. I help warp the vessels in and out. When I’m needed. Not today.” He raised his mug and winked. “There’s luck, eh?”

A dockhand. It was a living, yes, but he was no longer his own master. It made Fenella sadder than she could say. Perhaps he read her face, for he raised his head with a look of wounded pride. “I get by just fine. That ale you’re drinking is the personal gift of a Spanish don. Came off an overloaded barge, the don’s own supply, three kegs that rolled off and would’ve sunk if my mates and me hadn’t salvaged ’em.”

Scrabbling for Spanish charity. This was sadder still. And a chilling reminder that she had to be careful about what she said. Thank God she had not mentioned Claes. Berck worked for the city, so his livelihood, meager though it was, came from the magistrates’ collaboration with the Spanish overlords. If he heard of a rebel, Berck might well turn him in.

He slammed his hand on the table like a slab of meat and said with sudden, brash cheerfulness, “To good days ahead, eh, Fenella?” He raised his mug again in a toast.

His bravado touched her. She managed a smile. “To good days for us all, Berck.” She toasted him. They both drank.

“Now,” he said, wiping his ale-damp beard with his hand, “what brings you to Brussels?”

“Business. And a chance to see old friends, like you.”

“Have you somewhere to stay? You’re welcome to a berth here.”

She hated to tell him that she would rather ride in the rain than sleep on this dirty boat. Besides, she’d expected to find a married couple, not a bachelor.

Perhaps he read her face. “The stern cabin would be all yours,” he assured her.

“That’s kind,” she said, “but I must see to my business before it gets dark. My customer is beyond the Anderlecht Gate. There’s bound to be an inn thereabouts.” She cocked her head, eyes on the ceiling. The din on deck had stopped. “Listen, the rain’s let up.”

The truth was, something else was troubling her, Berck’s tale of how his wife had run out on him.
A disloyal wife,
she thought.
Is that what I am?
Claes had gone on a mission that was clearly dangerous, and what if he was hurt? Or killed? If he died, God forbid, she could only mourn him . . . for the second time. But if he was hurt? A wife’s place was with her husband, to help him and comfort him. That was the marriage vow, and she had taken it with her eyes open. She sensed that Claes’s stern-faced comrade, Sister Martha, would like to take her place.
But I’m his lawful wife.

No, he set me free,
the voice inside her pleaded.
Go to England,
he had said.
Be safe there. Be happy.
And she had been so relieved to hear that. She wanted no part of the life Claes had chosen in leading the Brethren, hiding underground like rats, always in fear. His hope of vanquishing the mighty Spaniards seemed daft to her, like the wishful thinking of a child. Yet the question needled her without pity:
Was
she free? What if Claes one day realized how hopeless the fight was and left the Brethren? Shouldn’t she then come back and live with him as his wife? And if that was the case, how could she start life in England as Adam Thornleigh’s business partner, so near him that she would always be yearning for him? How could she put her heart into rebuilding her business there if one day she would have to go back to Claes?

“You’ll come back, though, won’t you?” Berck was saying.

“What?”

“After your business is done. We’ve got lots to catch up on. Old times.”

She looked at him, the spidery red threads that webbed his cheeks, the morose yet hopeful look in his eyes. “I’ll try,” she lied. She fetched her satchel, readying to leave, and took out five gold ducats and pressed them into his beefy hand.

He looked taken aback. “What’s this?” He sounded on the verge of taking offense.

“To hell with Spaniards,” she said slyly. “Buy your own kegs.”

He barked a laugh and closed his fist around the coins. “Ha! So I will.” He grinned. “You’re a woman in a million, Fenella.”

She was already going up the steps, her satchel strap over one shoulder, her damp cloak over the other arm. “Here, I’ll help you onto your horse,” Berck said, following.

Up on deck she opened the cabin door. The rain had stopped, but heavy gray clouds still massed above, allowing no sun. Evening was drawing near. She stepped onto the jetty and turned to say good-bye to Berck on deck. A dog was yapping onshore. Fenella glanced at it. It was crouched on the riverside path barking frantically at something. Through the screen of trees that lined the path Fenella saw a figure coming toward the dog—a man, looking over his shoulder, his face turned away, his steps erratic. He cleared the trees, and she saw that blood soaked his shirtsleeve and half his jerkin. He looked forward again and she saw his face. Her breath caught. Adam Thornleigh!

She dumped the satchel and cloak and ran. At the foot of the jetty she intercepted him. “Adam!”

He looked stunned to see her. “Fenella . . .” His shirt was drenched with blood and water, his hair and face wet with rain. The shoulder of his sleeve was ripped and she saw the gash in his flesh, the muscle glistening red.

“Dear God, you’re wounded.”

He managed a tortured smile. “Sorry, this was the nearest place. Your friend. You said, remember?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“Need a place to lie low. The blood . . . hard to hide.” The dog, smelling the blood, growled at him and bared its teeth. Fenella picked up a stone and hurled it at the animal, striking its side. It yipped and bounded off into the trees. Adam was looking at the barge where Berck still stood. “Is this the boat? That’s your friend?”

“Yes. What happened? Who did this to you?” He was a wanted man. “Alba’s men?”

He said nothing, just winced. The pain must be awful, she realized. His face was so pale! “Come aboard,” she said, indicating the boat. “You need help.”

He frowned, hesitating. “Didn’t expect you here . . . don’t want to get you into trouble.” He looked so doubtful, she was afraid he would turn and go.

“You won’t. Really,” she insisted. “Come aboard. Let me see to your wound.”

He was looking past her. “Sure your friend won’t mind?” She turned to see Berck coming down the jetty toward them, scowling. He held a dagger.

“I’ll deal with him,” she said, though her heart was racing with alarm as Berck reached them. The two men eyed each other. “This is Berck Verhulst,” she told Adam. Then to Berck, “This is . . . Adams. A friend from Sark.” If he was on the run from Alba’s men she must not disclose his identity. “You can see he’s badly hurt. Help me get him below.”

Berck blocked the way. “What happened to you, mate?”

Adam looked him in the eye. “Scurvy fellow thought he’d be happier with my purse.”

Berck didn’t budge, his face dark, hostile.

Adam gave the barest nod. “Right. I’ll be on my way.” He turned to go, grimacing in pain.

“No!” Fenella cried, and caught his good arm to stop him. “You can scarcely stand. Berck, you can’t turn him away. He’s a fellow seaman.”

Berck grunted, considering it. He glanced at a cottage across the path. “We can’t stand here. Neighbors will be nosing out their window.” He sheathed his dagger. “Bring him below.”

Thank God!
At Fenella’s urging Adam wrapped his good arm around her shoulder and she guided him aboard and down the companionway. The way he leaned on her both thrilled and alarmed her. He would not do so unless awfully weak. How long had he been walking the streets in this condition? Berck followed her down, bringing her satchel, and she asked, “Where can we rest him?” Berck pointed to the berth littered with gear. She swept the blocks and sheaves to the foot of the berth and Adam sat down on it, his eyes on her. He said very quietly, “I won’t stay long, Fenella. Not good for you.”

“Hush. Lie back.”

He looked reluctant to relax his guard by lying down. Instead, he swung his boots up onto the berth and eased his back against the bulkhead, like a soldier still on watch. Fenella leaned over him and carefully lifted the bloodied, torn edge on his sleeve to look at his gashed shoulder. Even in the dim light the wound gleamed wetly.

“Bandages,” she said, turning to Berck. He stood with arms folded, watching Adam, curious or suspicious or both.
No bloody help,
she thought. “Berck, do you have anything clean we can use? A freshly laundered sheet?” He looked at her as if she’d ordered a roast pheasant. “Never mind,” she said, and unsheathed the dirk at her belt. She always carried this knife. Lifting the hem of her dress, she used the dirk to cut two long strips off the bottom of her underskirt. “Can you fetch some rainwater?” Berck nodded and clomped up the steps. She resheathed the knife and turned to Adam with the makeshift bandages but hesitated. With a wound so painful could he take off his jerkin and shirt? But he saw what she was doing and didn’t need to be asked. He unbuckled the jerkin and shrugged out of it. Then, wincing at the pain, he pulled the shirt off over his head. Fenella felt a clutch at her heart. Half-naked, blood streaking his chest, he looked both more virile and more vulnerable.

Berck brought a mug of water and Fenella sat on the edge of the berth and used a balled strip of her underskirt to gently sponge Adam’s wound. Sensing his eyes on her, she felt warm blood flush her cheeks. She readied the other, longer strip and without a word Adam raised his arm and she wound the linen around his shoulder and under his armpit, careful to lay it gently but firmly against the tender wound.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Their eyes met, and the warmth in his sent a flutter to her belly. She swallowed. “You must be parched.” She looked over her shoulder. “Berck, draw a mug of ale for him, would you?”

She was tying off the ends of the linen strip when Berck shoved a foaming mug at Adam. “Drink up, mate.” He said it as if he wished it were poison. She longed to ask Adam how he had really been wounded—she doubted his tale about a thief—but she could not with Berck near. He’d sat down on his bench at the table with his own full mug. Her questions would have to wait.

Adam raised his mug to Berck. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

Berck eyed him in silence and took a mouthful of ale. Fenella asked him for a clean shirt for Adam, whose own was foul with blood. Berck brought one, dingy and threadbare, but at least it was dry. As Fenella helped Adam pull it on she tingled at the touch of his skin. He had finished half the ale and already it was having its effect. His eyelids looked heavy.
He needs sleep,
she thought. She took the mug from him and urged him to lie down. He let himself slump, too weary to keep sitting. She looked around for a pillow and wasn’t surprised to see none. From her satchel she took a shawl and folded it and snugged it under his head. He smiled at her, a sad smile like an apology. Then his eyes closed.

“He’s out.” Berck let out a burp. “On the run, is he?” His words were a little slurred by the drink. “What’s he done?”

She looked at him. “I don’t know yet.” It was only half a lie.

“Why’d he come here?”

“I told him you were a friend.” She looked at Adam, glad to hear his steady breathing. “He can’t be moved until he gets back his strength. All right if we stay the night?”

Berck gave her a knowing look that said,
So now my boat’s satisfactory?
“I told you before, the stern cabin’s yours.” He looked away, muttering, “You paid for it.”

Anger flickered in her at his tone, but she doused it when she saw him stumble off to a berth in the abandoned quarters where he’d once had crew.

She left Adam and closed the door of the stern cabin and lay down on Berck’s berth in her clothes, ready to jump up if Adam should need her in the night. Worry about him kept her awake. Was he on the run as Berck suspected? Were Alba’s men after him? She lay atop the blanket listening to the sounds outside. Above her, rainwater dripping off the rigging onto the deck. Onshore, a barking dog. She tried to think about tomorrow, about delivering the money to the Brethren, but thoughts of Adam kept surging back. His grateful, weary smile. His whispered,
Thank you.
The warmth of his skin on her fingertips. The warmth spread through her, down to her belly, both thrilling and frustrating. When she finally sank into sleep, it was in a dream of sinking into his arms, her hands on his body.

The next morning Berck was bleary-eyed and heavy-footed from drink, his hair a rat’s nest. He downed a cup of ale to fortify himself to go to work at the lock. When he went up on deck to leave, Fenella came up after him to say good-bye. The rising sun pinked the sky, promising a fair day. She squeezed his elbow. “Thank you. For the safe haven.”

Sullenness darkened his bloodshot eyes. “Any port in a storm, eh?”

His morose tone irked her. Why did he wallow in gloom? “You need to pull yourself together, Berck. Clean up this dirty boat. Clean
yourself
up.”

He flinched as if she’d slapped him.

She wasn’t sorry. Whatever his troubles were, they were nothing compared to Adam’s.
Or mine
. “Rolling that big ale keg into the river would be a start.”

“Who are you to talk to me like that?”

“Your friend. I mean it, Berck. You need to find a way to
live
again.”

They stood for a moment eye to eye, glaring at each other, like two wrestlers about to set on each other. The thought made a laugh bubble up in Fenella. She, wrestle this mountain of a man? She chuckled.

“What’s funny?” He looked flummoxed.

“Nothing. Go on now, get to work.”

He gave her a last bewildered look, then trudged off down the jetty. She watched him tramp down the riverbank path. Her heart was lighter. Now she could talk to Adam.

He was sitting on the edge of the berth when she came below. No blood had wept through the bandage onto the shirt. A good sign. And he looked well rested. “How’s the wound?”

“Better,” he said with a smile. “Thanks to you.”

She needed to do something, to be busy, else she’d gaze at him like some daft girl. “Hungry?”